An amber-colored glass paperweight can be found delicately placed in the drawer of my nightstand. This seemingly insignificant object holds sentimental value as it previously belonged to my late father and his grandmother before him. Its cube shape is adorned with beautiful painted flowers on each side and it carries a weighty presence in my palm. However, I seldom handle it because I have no need for paperweights at the moment. Yet, I still keep it alongside other sentimental items that may be deemed impractical, such as a box of old birthday cards, a chipped seashell, and a loyalty card from a café that no longer exists.
Recently, I have been contemplating these mementos, as well as many others, as I strive to create more space in my small apartment which I share with my husband and young child. Despite my efforts, I find it difficult to part with these items. Instead, they gather in the corners of rooms, creating a random array reminiscent of a thrift store, albeit not the carefully curated kind. The mismatched clutter doesn’t necessarily align with my aesthetic preferences, but it fulfills a deeper emotional need. It represents different stages of my life, the lives of deceased relatives, and now, the life of my not-quite-2-year-old daughter. These items anchor me to people and times that would otherwise be lost and forgotten.
One particular item, a metal box filled with train tickets and museum passes from past travels, rests on my dresser. These experiences feel distant and almost fictional, as if I read about them in a book rather than personally lived through them. Hidden beneath the bed is a collection of old clothes, including a frilly top worn on my 21st birthday. It has been over a decade since I last wore it, yet when I take it out, my fingers can’t help but linger on the cheap ruffles, evoking memories of a self who was carefree, albeit directionless. As I reflect on these belongings, I realize I have lugged some of them through twelve different apartments. They serve as constant reminders of my previous identities, even as I embark on new beginnings.
In my teenage bedroom, which my mother has urged me to sort through for almost two decades, numerous items continue to reside. Occasionally, I summon the courage to sift through the mess and donate some old club T-shirts to Goodwill. However, the prospect of parting with homework assignments and notes from friends exhausts me. How was I once so close to a girl I haven’t seen in twenty years that she wrote me a heartfelt note and made a personalized collage? And yet, I remain connected to some of these friends to this day. The memories enchant me, but they also overwhelm me with a sense of bittersweetness.
There are also small objects that serve as tributes to those I have lost. In the first half of last year, my father, my husband’s father, and my grandfather all passed away for unrelated reasons. Since then, their belongings have gradually infiltrated our home. As of now, my husband’s father’s dress shoes from our wedding occupy space in our closet. Though my husband intends to donate them, he is not yet ready to part with them. There are moments when they catch me off guard, causing me to question whether they aid in our healing or hinder our progress.
Although cramming our spaces with reminders of past pain may seem inappropriate, clinical psychologist and research scientist Natalia Skritskaya from Columbia University’s Center for Prolonged Grief assures me that holding onto objects that evoke mixed emotions is natural. “We are complex beings,” she explains. When I reflect on the most significant periods in my life, they are never completely devoid of sadness. Sorrow and disappointment often linger alongside joy and a sense of belonging, giving the latter even more weight. I desire for my home to reflect this nuanced reality. While clinging to old belongings may impede the grieving process in some cases, avoiding all associations with grief is not a solution either. Not only is it impossible to rid our spaces entirely of signs of grief, but it also deprives our lives of depth if every room is devoid of suffering.
Determining what to keep and what to let go of is an ongoing, intuitive process that never feels quite complete or certain. The line between having “just enough” and having “too much” can fluctuate, even when it is I who draws it. A slight shift in my mood can transform a cherished heirloom into an intrusive inconvenience in a matter of seconds. This feeling is especially potent when I find myself frantically searching for my keys or an important piece of mail. Such moments make me feel as if my life is chaotic and that I have no control over my surroundings, particularly because many of my possessions were given to me rather than intentionally chosen. Nonetheless, more and more items find their way into our limited space as our child receives new toys and we accumulate additional belongings. I do make an effort to part with some of my belongings on a semi-regular basis, but I am certain I possess more than any professional organizer would recommend.
In a sense, a home is akin to a personal museum. Certain objects may connect us to significant historical events. For instance, my grandfather’s yellowed luggage tag represents not only the trips he took later in life but also the forced relocations he experienced as a Japanese American teenager during World War II when he was sent to an internment camp. Other objects hold meaning solely for those who knew their previous owners. I think of the first “painting” my daughter ever made, which nearly brought my husband and me to tears. It is simply a few blotted dots, but the notion of her choosing where to place them was profoundly moving—a sign of her first foray into the vulnerability of creative decision-making. It still proudly hangs on our fridge. These artifacts pay homage to the individuals who have resided within our home and commemorate those who have shaped our lives.
During one of my last visits to see my father at his home, he gifted us an antique wooden high chair from his childhood residence. The knowledge that my father, who appeared larger than life reclined in his bed, once occupied this tiny chair puzzled me. We brought it home for my daughter, who had recently started eating solid foods. A few days later, my father was gone. Yet, the high chair remained—a silent reminder of his presence.
Most of my relatives, including my father, did not lead extraordinary lives. Their names are not immortalized on buildings or associated with scholarships. Only a small group of individuals still remember them, and one of those individuals is me. However, their personal possessions remain, testifying to the fact that someone was once here. As I go about my daily tasks—folding laundry or pondering my to-do list—the clutter surrounding me serves as a constant reminder of the people who have filled my life and now fill my apartment.
Denial of responsibility! VigourTimes is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
